


In Parting

by Invah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Ghosts, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Major character death - Freeform, dave strider plays undead matchmaker for his asshole brother and the lighthouse ghost, followed by, minor depictions of violence, more tags to be added maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invah/pseuds/Invah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumors foretell a morbid tale, a twisted history behind the abandoned lighthouse that sits atop Cherry Hill. According to some, it was suicide. Others suspect foul play, murdered by an ex-lover. Twenty years after the tragedy that occurred there, when the moon is high and the fog is thick, some claim that up on the railing, a figure can still be seen. None dare to climb the hill, nor even think of ascending those steps. Unless, of course, they had been dared by some snot-nosed brat. Unless their name was Dave Strider. </p><p>Fuck ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Parting

##  **APRIL 15th, 1996**

Dirk Strider had woken up at the ass crack of dawn today, not because he felt like it, but because he couldn't sleep a goddamn wink.

The why and wherefore to this being totally _not_ explicitly because Jake English had slipped a message in his jacket pocket before he'd gone home to hit the old dusty trail last night. The contents of said message included Jake, in his ridiculous, unprepossessing chicken scratch, propositioning Dirk for a secret meeting inside the farthest room north-ways in the lighthouse up on Cherry Hill. He was specifically instructed not to blow the lid on this little surreptitious powwow between dudes. Brocode number one: don't spill the fuckin' beans about your hush-hush consultations with your best bromigo. Not that Dirk would have told anybody. Possibly.

Roxy basically counted as a bro. 

Dirk could guess whom Jake was referring to in his note by the way he underlined the word _“anybody!”_ when requesting for the blond to keep it on the down low. It had been confirmed immediately thereafter in parenthesis beside the word as _(“Especially Roxy!)”_ Psh. Please, he had more self-control than _that._ Contrary to previous statements. Don't quote him on it.

Dirk was almost mildly insulted by the insinuation that he wouldn't classify their get-together as Top Secret information. The highest form of confidentiality. He had this shit locked up tighter than the nuclear missile codes.

“Pull yourself together, Dirk.” He'd spent the better half of an hour staring at himself in the mirror, running the message through his head over and over and over again in a loop so fuckin' ass biting ouroboros it was going to drive him off the deep end. Just, right into it. Clothes and all. Even his hair that was normally sculpted so perfect and accurately any other day but had suddenly decided to take the piss out of Dirk, agitating him into flying so far up the fucking wall he might even get his dick caught in the ceiling fan while doing aerobatics.

A deep breath was taken. Exhaled. And then taken again. Fuck it, he'd already spent at least two hours preparing for this meeting that Jake had described as _“Of utmost importance”_ and _”A heart to heart between two kindred spirits.”_ Whatever the hell he'd meant by that.

Dirk _did_ make an attempt to not let his mind wander about the implications of those statements, but it was too obvious for him to simply overlook and keep pretending that it didn't sit under his nose like a gargoyle perched on a stone fence, continuously shooting off not-so-friendly reminders about its subsistence within his feelings.

Those feelings consisting of himself being head over friggin' heels for Jake English.

It wasn't as if these affections weren't reciprocated. The two had been dancing around it for ages. A hip sat too close to the other, shoulders brushing and fingers twitching together. Time and time again had he caught just a faint hit of a blush on the brunet's dark skin, lip pulled between his teeth in contemplation. Dirk, too. He wasn't one for outwardly displayed emotions, but more than once had he caught the other boy's forest green eyes darting down to the pale skin under his sunglasses in a situation too adjoined, when his cheeks felt warm and hot, and he'd been certain that there was a dust of pink over his own facial features.

A game of wrestling turned too intimate, movie night spent pressed in tight, or a subtle knee bump on a park bench.

Dirk's stomach broke out into fucking back flips like it was going for the Olympic Gold Medal in freaking the absolute fuck out. He had to stop thinking about this. He was already going to be running late. Jake asked to meet at 10AM on the balcony to the tower, and by the time he'd arrive it'd probably be 5 minutes passed the scheduled date. And Dirk was never one to be tardy. His internal clock wouldn't allow for it. 

He decided to finally say “Fuck it,” and make a break for the door, treading into the Spring heat before he got completely absorbed in his own thoughts and reflection again.

The walk to Cherry Hill on average takes, roughly calculated, 32 minutes and 40 seconds (he knows, he's timed it on several instances). But today he's running. There really isn't any conceivable reason for him to run but holy shit does he need to get these jitters out of his body. 

Dirk hated it. Hated feeling his stomach swimming and twisting and pulling like the world's most intense round of Tug-o-War. The ropes were his insides and the two teams were his predilection and neuroticism. It was awful. Jake English did awful things to him, and he'd never admit to the other how this was the most nervous he'd ever been in his entire sixteen years of existence. 

The peak of the lighthouse was in sight. Arrival time was ten minutes earlier than what was formerly predicted, but he was still a few minutes late (3, give or take), cutting across the street in anticipation.

 

He didn't bother checking the road for cars.

 

If the blaring horn wasn't enough to scare the ever living shit out of Dirk Strider, the way he could feel the right headlight skim across his hip as the car whizzed by, swerving out of the blond's physical vicinity, definitely did the job.

_Jesus Chris Kringling Christ on a cracker._

The amount of absurdity he had to endure today was going to kill him. Stop his heart right in its tracks like Mark Martin after getting his parked ass handed to him proceeding his premature victory. How _humiliating_. His tombstone would read _“Here lies Dirk Strider: He was so fuckin' gay.”_

Dwelling over these thoughts were only succeeding in making the blond later to what should have been priority numero uno; rendezvousing with Jake.

Right.

Rider, meet horse. Horse, meet rider.

He trotted the rest of the way towards the lighthouse, a skip in his step. Dirk didn't want there to be a skip in his step. On a scale of things totally cool to Jim Carrey modeling Bavarian overalls while dressed in a green fursuit (he doesn't know why that euphemism works, it just does), it was easily a 2. Which was, _not very cool at all._

The way his hand pressed against the heavy metal doors to the lighthouse was natural by now. He'd been here at least a hundred times (74 exactly, counting this one), used to the weight of the frames and where his palm was best suited in pushing. Jake always had a habit of wrestling with the thing, jimmying the doors open with his shoulders and putting his entire body into a shove. Really, kind of obsolete when it was just a matter of finding the points that gave enough leeway. Even Jane, with her much softer stature, had learned that.

He supposed he should have cut the other boy some slack. Just for this morning.

“Jake.” He called out, voice echoing off the walls of the tower. No answer. He suspected his bro was keeping himself busy up at the top, probably daydreaming to pass the time. Dirk assumed Jake had been waiting here for longer than just several minutes. Most likely an hour, at least. He tended to arrive early for things when he was excited.

 

Something made an audible _crunch_ outside as the doors closed. A sound unfamiliar to the blond. “Bro, is that you?” He turned, fingers lifting towards the handle before something tumbled down on the floor above. The probability of it being a box was… the most likely answer. Hollow, thin, cardboard texture. Sounded like there was something inside of it.

His hand retreated and he turned once again, grabbing the railing to the winding, spiral staircase that led up the tower.

Something didn't feel quite right.

It was quiet.

Dirk took the steps one at a time. 

Then by two.

His heart rate accelerated, palms suddenly feeling moist. No, something wasn't right _at all._ Before he knew it, he was bolting, ascending the staircase as fast as his legs could carry him. Something made that tumbling sound again, landing with a much louder thud. Dirk should have been more worried. It sounded like something much heavier than a box. A book, maybe. No, most likely a book. He couldn't really evaluate the sound at the moment, ears clouded by the sound of his own heartbeat, milky pressure behind them.

 

When he finally emerged from the cellar door to the top room, there was…

 

Nobody. 

Not even Jake English.

“Hello?” He called again, voice losing the usual wooden tone that he'd been accustomed to applying throughout his life. There was concern. Maybe something a little more than that. 

The room was a typical watchtower area. Glass encasement, beacon in the center, a desk on one side, accompanied by a chair, and cardboard boxes filled with miscellaneous things on the other, a balcony facing towards the rear of the building… The chair to the desk was knocked over, and a few empty boxes strewn about the floor. No. No, this wasn't normal. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Dirk crawled out from the hatch, getting to his feet as an air of caution surrounded him. His hand fell to his hip, groping until he found the keys hooked around his belt loops. He took them, held the things in between his knuckles like claws. That's what Roxy always said to do. Keys doubled as a self defense weapon.

He silently tiptoed across the room, something on the ground catching his eye over by the balcony, on the hand railing. The light reflected oddly on it, some kind of fluid-

 

_Blood._

 

His heart dropped into his stomach. Time stopped.

Dirk knew he was physically present for the situation. He knew it. He could _see_ it. And yet, it felt as though he'd been watching through a TV screen. His legs moved on their own accord, the blond lost in another plane. Mentally drifted.

He inched closer to the doorway, ears ringing. It was silent. So silent. _Too fucking silent._ The wind blew in through the open windows, shirt flapping in the gust, but he heard nothing. Felt nothing. His hand reached for the railing, gripping it tightly, and he chanced a look over the edge. Slowly.

It felt like vertigo. Like somebody yanked the rug out from under his feet and sent him spinning onto his ass. He wanted to vomit.

He could see the dark hair. The green jacket. Those stupid tan khaki's that the boy always wore regardless of how hot or fucking cold it was outside. And the blood. He could see the blood, like an ink splatter on the floor, some three-year-old's introduction into arts and crafts.

 _“Jake!”_ No answer. God, why _would_ there have been an answer? He doesn't remember what he does with his keys when he lurches away from the balcony. He's almost positive that he twists his ankle when he takes the stairs in leaps, later confirmed when the joint aches as he reaches the floor. The front doors have never felt so heavy before. Heavier than the first time he ever forced them open. “Jake. Jake. _Jake!_ ” He's repeating. Dirk had a tendency to repeat himself when he was nervous. Mentally. Always mentally. Over-analyzing and replaying and reviewing and recomposing and thinking, God, he was always _thinking_ and always spreading himself so thin and wasting _time_ trying to be perfect. Like his stupid hair. His _stupid fucking hair._

There is blood on his knees when he drops to them besides Jake's body, bent in ways it's not supposed to be, something only caused by falling from a height – falling from a _tower_. It's on his hands next when he touches Jake's chest and neck, checking for a pulse he already knows isn't there. Stains Dirk's shirt when he hugs him close.

He has bruises. Bruises Dirk can tell weren't caused by hitting the ground because he definitely landed on his head, don't fucking question him, he can _tell_ that Jake landed on his goddamn _head_.

 _The crunch_. He remembers the crunch. He latches onto the memory, and plays it in his head over. And over. And over. Stores it in his mind, locks it into his data files. He has a noise now for what Jake's skull sounds like when it cracks against the ground. Something he would have happily gone the rest of his life without knowing. Something that should have never happened.

It shouldn't have happened.

“I'm so sorry.” He should have been there sooner. He shouldn't have been late.

 

There's something wet on his cheeks. It's not blood.

### 

Dirk Strider had woken up at the strike of midnight. Not because he felt like it, but because he couldn't sleep a single wink without being terrorized by nightmares.

He hadn't slept well in weeks.

Hadn't gone to school, either. Hadn't talked much to Jane or Roxy. 

Hadn't gone to the funeral.

 

Roxy insists on coming over to check up on him, tries to coax him into coming out of the house. She says it's not his fault every time she does. “Dirk. You need to face this. It's not healthy.” She sits beside him on the bed, hand on his knee. He doesn't shrug her off, but he also doesn't answer. There's no logical reason for him to. At least, none he wants to coincide with. “C'mon, would J-man want you to stay cooped up in your little Batcave all day, Brucey?” Roxy sounds like she's smiling, but he's not looking at her. He can't. He just can't look at those sad, pitying eyes of hers. Roxy was a good friend. Why couldn't Dirk be a good friend?

“Suicide,” It feels like there are cotton balls in his mouth, dry and bitter. His tongue practically sticks to the roof of his mouth. He swallows and it feels like glass. “They're calling it a _suicide.”_

She audibly sighs. He can feel her hand squeeze his knee. “Those bozack's don't know what they're yappin' about. We know the truth, Dirk.”

He doesn't answer again. The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

He doesn't know how long Roxy stays there for – he's lost his sense of time since the incident. Before she leaves, she plants a kiss to his temple and promises to come back the next day. When she finally sees herself out, he allows himself to hold a pillow over his face, waiting for his body to fall into another restless slumber. 

 

If he wishes hard enough, maybe he'll finally suffocate in his sleep.


End file.
